


Surprise Like Plum

by Dracarysforged



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angelo's Restaurant (Sherlock), E rating for later chapters, First Kiss, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft doesn't appear directly in this one but manages to be nosy anyway, Post Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Pre-Relationship, first chapter is gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracarysforged/pseuds/Dracarysforged
Summary: Sherlock suffers mild consequences from his brush with The Spider in Soo Lin’s apartment and John is nothing if not a healer.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Surprise Like Plum

**Author's Note:**

> Errors are my own, not brit-picked  
> Set at the end of 1x02, just after John and Sherlock discuss Shan’s escape.  
> E Rating for Chapters 2 and 3 - Tags will update with chapters

There are times when John still can’t parse the difference between Sherlock honestly not paying attention and Sherlock working at not paying attention. 

This is one of those moments, fresh tea and staying-in clothes and Sherlock flipping through a stack of newspapers, vague and unfocused around the edges. A rare instance where the detective seems content to absorb information at the pace the world gives it to him, rather than hunting it down with speed and precision. 

John watches the kid spray paint the electrical box across the street, eyes darting between Sherlock’s face and the window. Surely if he noticed, Sherlock must have...right? 

But Sherlock gives no indication that he notices or cares about the act of vandalism. John opens his mouth to ask but is interrupted when Sherlock clears his throat, folding the newspaper with a decisive snap and picking up the next one. John tries in vain to figure out if he was just dismissed or not. 

John concedes it’s possible he’s starting to stare. It’s something that he finds happening distressingly more often these days for a variety of increasingly ridiculous reasons but it does pan out on occasion. For instance, in a brief moment Sherlock is between papers, John notices something isn’t quite right. 

Sherlock’s head twists uncomfortably on his neck, like you would with a knot or strained muscle, and his mouth ticks down in a brief grimace. Despite being in his dressing gown, his shirt is buttoned two buttons higher than he usually keeps it when in the flat and he’s careful to pull the newspaper back up to a level that covers him from the chin down, as if he can sense John’s eyes on him. 

“Okay,” John says, setting down his fork. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock peers over the edge of the paper, all fake innocence. 

“I have no idea what you are talking about, John.”

“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock.”

“Debatable,” Sherlock mutters, ducking behind his newspaper completely. 

“Yes, very funny. I can tell something is wrong. Is it your neck? Is that why you were so hoarse yesterday? Is your throat bothering you?”

Sherlock refuses to reveal himself from behind the page, “don’t make up deductions John, it doesn’t help your “I’m not an idiot” case.”

John clamps his hand down on the top edge of the paper and crushes it to the table, revealing a vaguely surprised and irritated Sherlock. 

“I’m a bloody doctor, Sherlock. I’m not making deductions, I’m observing symptoms. Tell me what’s wrong, or I’ll assume you are getting a cold and tell Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock looks a little horrified, “You wouldn’t!” The last time Mrs. Hudson suspected Sherlock was ill, she’d made him take castor oil, John suspects solely for her own amusement, and force fed him enough tea and comfort food for an army. To be fair, Sherlock did end up having a minor bug and John suspects he pulled through a little quicker due to all the nourishment but Sherlock whinged terribly through the entire ordeal.

“I absolutely would.”

Sherlock snaps the newspaper back up between then, scoffing at the crumpled mess John has made of it. 

“I’m fine,” he snaps with finality.

John doesn’t ask again, but this time he stares without remorse, hoping to catch a glimpse of what is bothering Sherlock or bother him into telling. Either way it’s a win. 

After about 10 minutes, Sherlock steadily growing more compact and angry behind his newspaper (John can tell by the way he grips the paper so hard it starts to tear under his fingertips), Sherlock explodes. 

“For god’s sake John!” He yells, tossing the paper over his shoulder and hurling himself from his chair so fast that his leg catches the table leg and he almost goes arse over head onto the floor. He catches himself, barely, and shoots an ugly look back as if John had personally tripped him. 

John holds up his hands in mock surrender, turning back to his breakfast in an effort not to burst out laughing.

Sherlock straightens his shoulders pointedly and marches into his room, very nearly slamming the door behind him. 

***

Hours later, John has almost forgotten about it. Sherlock has remained firmly in his room, only the occasional odd bang or cursing to show that he’s still up. John hoped he might crash after this last case but after an unsatisfying conclusion, Sherlock was up all night again last night making a nuisance of himself and it seems that his fidgety energy has yet to run its course. 

John is waiting for the kettle to boil and idly poking around the fridge, stomach growling, when he realizes he hasn’t seen Sherlock eat in almost as long as he hasn’t slept, a bad combination. He leans past the fridge to peer at the resolutely closed bedroom door and wonders if he dares ask. 

“I can feel you staring at the door, John.” Sherlock says from his room, startling John terribly. 

John clears his throat, trying to cover the moment of awkwardness.

“We’ve nothing in and I’m starving. I was thinking Angelo’s?”

Angelo’s is one of the few guaranteed ways to get Sherlock out of the flat. Even if he says he’s not hungry, he’s almost always amenable to stealing bits from the edges of John’s plate and he enjoys watching the hustle and bustle roll by the window. 

Which is why, when Sherlock hesitates to answer, John suddenly remembers their conversation from earlier with a sinking stomach. He doesn’t ask if something is wrong again, a surefire way to get Sherlock to clam-up, but now he’s properly worried. 

“Come on, you haven’t a case and I could eat a horse. Angelo hasn’t had an excuse to dote on you in ages, you know how he likes to bring us a candle.” John says, trying for lighthearted. 

Sherlock sighs heavily, but John hears the bed creak and considers it a victory. 

“I’ll just get my shoes, don’t be long!” 

He waits until he can actually hear Sherlock moving around his room before he pops up to his room for his shoes and a half-hearted swipe at his hair. He debates changing his clothes, but the white and navy striped shirt is comfortable (and makes his arms look nice if Sarah was to be believed) and the weather is relatively mild so he just grabs his jacket off the hook and loiters on the landing to wait for Sherlock. 

Sherlock emerges from the sitting room door, surprisingly bundled up, his scarf on and coat collar pulled high. John raises an eyebrow that he knows Sherlock doesn’t miss. 

As expected, the night air in the city is cool but not biting and John finds himself glad he suggested they stretch their legs. Even Sherlock, who has been tense and hunched, seems to relax a little. 

There isn’t really a need to fill the companionable silence, settling comfortable and familiar between them as they make their way along the street. Something warm crackles in John’s chest when Sherlock matches his pace, rather than charging ahead and forcing John to try and keep up. He watches Sherlock watch the city around them, eyes darting, and wonders idly if Sherlock would laugh at him if John asked what he was thinking. 

All in all, he’s paying more attention to Sherlock than he’s ever paid anything in his life short of medical school and Sherlock might still win out. Which is why he is embarrassingly unprepared when Sherlock reaches out a lightning fast hand and yanks him roughly by his sleeve, sending him stumbling into Sherlock’s side to keep from crashing to the sidewalk. 

“Sherlock!” He exclaims, using Sherlock’s arm to right himself. “What-”

But the rest of his words are lost when he looks up to find Sherlock smiling broadly down at him, a feeling rather like looking up to find the noon day sun suddenly hanging in the London night sky. 

Sherlock wordlessly points off to the side and John realizes with a steadily rising heat that he almost walked into a lamppost. 

“Distracted?” Sherlock asks, his voice at least an octave deeper than usual, his smile morphing into something more wicked. 

If John were standing in the middle of a busy London sidewalk with nearly any other human on the planet and they said exactly that, in that voice, with that smile, he’d assume he was getting laid tonight. As it is, Sherlock Holmes is the only person on the planet with that exact voice and that smile and that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?

“Bugger,” John says, very very softly. 

He steps back a little, trying to muster some of his dignity in the straintening of his shoulders but in truth, the whole ordeal is almost worth it just to see Sherlock light up a little bit. 

The silence the rest of the way to Angelo’s is tense in a way John can’t quite put his finger on. Or he can, but the phrase “sexual tension” coupled with “Sherlock Holmes” seems so widely out of his reach he decides he must be imagining it. 

Sherlock sweeps into Angelo’s with his usual grace and familiarity, taking his seat by the window. Angelo doesn’t even need to hand them menus, greeting them warmly and pouring them wine without asking. John idly sinks into the bliss of the rare, peaceful evening meal. 

“Anything else for you?”

“A candle I think, please Angelo,” Sherlock murmurs, not looking round from his intense scrutiny of traffic beyond the window. 

John’s head shoots up just in time to see the pleased, happy smile grace Angelo’s broad face as he looks between Sherlock and John. 

“Of course, Sherlock!” He booms and disappears into the back. 

John doesn't know how long he stares at Sherlock’s profile before Sherlock finally glances his way. His face is unreadable, but he shrugs ever so slightly. 

John doesn’t know what to say or ask or do. He feels like he’s tumbled into Wonderland. 

“You haven’t, I don’t know, destroyed something important or drugged me or something else I should know about, have you?” He finally settles on. 

Sherlock’s face goes just a little sour and John immediately feels like a heel. “No, not today John.”

“Okay, well, good.” John stutters out, reaching for his wine just to have something else to focus on. 

Angelo brings the little candle by and tops off the wine John practically gulped and continues to beam at them through the whole process. It’s excruciating. John wants to yank him down by a sleeve and ask, “ _ Do you know what’s happening here, because I definitely don’t _ .”

He quietly thanks Angelo for the wine instead. 

When they are alone once more, Sherlock finally relaxes from his vigil at the window, turning to face John fully. He sips at his wine, looking a little uncomfortable, and John tries again to read what he sees there. 

Sherlock removed his coat and scarf when they entered, but his shirt is steadfastly buttoned all the way to the top button, a strangely high collar making John think it might not be a shirt he’s seen before. Sherlock must notice the scrutiny because he tucks his chin slightly, kicking his legs out under the table and ‘accidentally’ kicking John in the shin in the process. 

John knows better than to ask when Sherlock is in this kind of mood, but he also refuses to be bullied into giving up, so he continues to watch Sherlock knowing full well Sherlock knows he’s watching. Angelo brings their plates and tops off both wine glasses and wishes them a good meal and through it all Sherlock still won’t meet John’s eyes. 

Sherlock barely looks at his plate, halfheartedly poking a few pieces around. John slides some of his to the edge of his plate and breaks his bread in half and sets it on a clean napkin between their hands but Sherlock doesn’t rise to even that bait. Sherlock kicks him twice more, muttering a half-hearted apology under his breath, before John traps his legs between his own. 

“I’m not going to ask again,” John says, trying to keep his voice level, “obviously something is wrong and obviously you need a nap. Keep my shins out of it, ta.”

Sherlock cycles through a fascinating rush, bristling denial melted into resignation sweeping into something like embarrassment. He doesn’t pull his legs from John’s grip, instead, he slides them closer so their legs are properly tangled, his shin sliding along John’s calf, making John nearly drop his fork. 

Finally, after what seems an age, Sherlock glances around and then reaches up and deftly unbuttons his shirt a few inches. He pulls the collar aside and tilts his neck, wincing, so that John can see that the pale base of his throat is just starting to mottle blue-black, creeping up the column of his neck. He’ll not be able to hide it with regular shirts by tomorrow. 

John reaches out without thinking, his fingers the lightest brush over the bruises, but Sherlock swallows hard under his touch anyway, the movement painful looking. John immediately knows what happened. 

“The killer was still in Soo Lin’s apartment.”

Sherlock nods, his skin hot under John’s touch. John pulls back the other side of his collar, cataloguing the extent of the damage. 

“A length of cloth, ripped bedsheet I suspect,” Sherlock says quietly, his voice a little more hoarse than it had been earlier. “A warning. Left this in my pocket. Doesn’t help he tried again at the circus though not nearly so effectively.”

Sherlock pulls back to reach into his pocket, unfurling his long fingers to reveal a black lotus folded from paper, the same as was left with the bodies. A rush of irrational panic seizes John, picturing the scene in the apartment, him yelling insults into the mail slot and Sherlock being strangled silently. 

A little venomous voice in John’s head says, “ _ I told you so! _ ” but Sherlock already looks embarrassed and a bit pained, the exhaustion of the case and the needs of his body all visibly weighing him down. With Sherlock’s legs tucked comfortably between John’s under their favorite table in their favorite restaurant, John just doesn’t have the heart to voice it. 

“How does it feel?” John asks instead. “It’s getting worse?”

Sherlock shrugs, doing the buttons back up. “Not as bad as it looks. My voice is starting to go.”

“Any trouble breathing?”

Sherlock shakes his head minutely. 

“You need to eat something. Is it bearable?”

Sherlock glances down at his plate, looking just a little bit green. 

“Right, okay.” John says, finally feeling he’s back on ground he knows how to tread. He gently untangles his legs from Sherlock’s and stands to shrug on his jacket, casting some cash on the table for Angelo who still never lets them pay properly but will keep a tip if they leave before he can refuse it. 

Sherlock watches him for a moment and then unfolds himself from under the table gracefully, reaching for his scarf and coat. 

“Unbutton a few buttons,” John says, catching his hand as he loops his scarf, “you’ve nothing to hide, no reason to strangle yourself.”

Sherlock’s eyes track to John’s hand on his arm and back up. He slips three buttons free under his scarf and John fancies a little tension slides from his shoulders. 

When they emerge into the night once more, John takes the lead this time and Sherlock surprisingly doesn’t question it, falling into step. 

John walks them to a coffee shop on the Westminster campus they frequent from time to time, reliably open late for students and late case nights and serving a variety of coffees, teas, and various latte and smoothie combinations. 

With the same, strange, wordless grace that has come to them over the course of this case, and more so over the course of this evening, Sherlock slides into a booth at the back and John heads to the counter to order. 

He’ll regret the caffeine later but John settles into the other side of the booth with a hot, black coffee and pushes some coffee flavored smoothie concoction toward Sherlock, all chocolate and extra protein and a couple of those trendy vitamin add-ins. Sherlock eyes it like it might bite him, but takes a tentative sip and immediately perks up a little. 

On the whole, John is feeling a little bold and a little more in sync with Sherlock than usual, riding the high of Sherlock being honest with him and expressingly vulnerability all in one go. He kicks his legs out to meet with Sherlock’s under the table and tries to hide his blushed grin when Sherlock stretches his legs to slide solidly back along his. 

John stares into the black coffee depths of his mug and wonders at how terrified and pleased he can be all at the same time. He listens carefully to Sherlock’s breathing and is relieved to find he’s not wheezing. 

“I suppose we’re lucky you bruise so easy or this could be a lot worse,” John says, “you need to tell me if you start to have trouble breathing though. I’ll get the stethoscope when we get back to the flat.”

Sherlock nods in acknowledgement, but his throat must really be starting to bother him because he’s uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Maybe this means I’ll get a whole day without you interrupting me?” John says, trying to lighten the mood. Sherlock rolls his eyes but he shifts his legs against John’s in a delicate exploration, sending sparks into John’s blood. 

Is this what it could be sometimes? John adores Sherlock when he’s bright and fierce as a passing comet, white light and razor edges and thrill crackling between them, but always somehow out of reach. This other side is what makes the picture complete, Sherlock quiet and tired and thinking whatever labyrinthian thoughts his mind conjures, their skin warm at every point of contact between them. The two sides of the coin together transform him into something tangible, yet still wondrous. 

Sherlock manages about three-quarters of the drink before he pushes it away, starting to droop a little as exhaustion and a full stomach catches up with him. 

John levers himself out of the booth and reaches to help Sherlock up. It’s not unusual for Sherlock to grasp his hand or arm to lever himself out of a tight space, but John almost jerks back in surprise when Sherlock tangles his fingers with John’s intimately and doesn’t let go until he’s upright.

Their walk home is silent again, but in a different way, gentle and warm. Sherlock is a sleepy quiet, slowly folding into himself. John has to slide his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out for Sherlock’s again. 

“That shirt is much better than your atrocious jumpers,” Sherlock says out of the blue, his voice really starting to fade. “It complements your arms quite nicely.”

John comes to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk and it takes several uncharacteristic seconds for Sherlock to notice and turn back. Did Sherlock just...compliment his looks?

“John?” Sherlock asks, faced creased in confusion.

John suddenly feels like he’s going to cry. 

“Sherlock, what is this?” He asks, needing to know and afraid to know all the same. 

Sherlock looks him over from head to toe and back, face unreadable. He slides his hands out of his pockets and walks back to stand just in front of John, reaching out to grab John’s left hand in his left, the two of them just off center as Sherlock leans in so close that John can feel his breath on his cheek. 

Sherlock is looking down at their joined hands but John can’t tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s face which scrunches and smooths in turn as he looks for the words. 

“In truth, John, I’m not sure.” He finally says, a whispered confession in the sliver of air between them. Sherlock says John’s name like he just wanted the pleasure of saying it. 

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand, cursing how his own sweats. He can keep it together shooting a man through two windows, why can’t he hold Sherlock’s hand on a bloody London sidewalk? 

“Sherlock, I-” Sherlock leans in closer, a single curl brushing John’s forehead and causing him to lose his train of thought, “Oh hell, I don’t know. I suppose there has to be something of a two way street to all this, so...well I’m totally gone on you, oh  _ christ _ , but I need to know what you mean. Right now.”

His mouth is dry and he can’t quite meet Sherlock’s eye but he thinks he might see something like delight gathering in the lines around his mouth and relief hits like a gaudy red double decker bus full of tourists. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, and abruptly the moment is shattered. Sherlock’s head shoots up and around and fury bleeds across his features. 

“God damn it,” Sherlock mutters. 

“Sherlock, what-” but then John hears it too and he follows Sherlock’s line of sight to see the CCTV on the building opposite buzz quietly as it turns towards them. It clicks into place and then the buzzing hops to the next unit, two buildings down. An ATM across the street dings suspiciously with no one standing near it.

John tugs on Sherlock’s hand clasped in his, bringing his attention back around. 

“Can I kiss you?” John asks, suddenly feeling like he’ll never stop smiling. 

Sherlock startles a little in his grip, his face an entirely new expression John’s never seen on him before.

“We’re gonna go back to Baker Street and I’m gonna look you over and then we’ll have an awkward chat about feelings we’ll both hate every second of. But first, I would dearly like to kiss you and traumatize Mycroft as a bonus.”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock stutters out, swallowing hard, “to both, I mean. The kiss and traumatizing Mycroft. Can we skip the feelings?”

“Right. Good. No.” John says, and hauls him in by the lapels of his coat.

It maybe doesn’t start off as the best kiss, Sherlock a little stiff and unsure and John unable to control his grin, more teeth and less kissing than he intended. John tucks one hand inside Sherlock’s coat to rest promisingly along the edge of suit jacket and crisp silk shirt; the other hand sliding into Sherlock's hair, tucking his thumb into the hollow behind his ear, and earning a beautiful little gasp that melts Sherlock’s mouth against his. Sherlock maneuvers right into the reach of his arms, a sinuous, liquid movement that sets off flashing lights in John’s head as Sherlock runs exploring fingers over John’s jaw and down his neck. 

The ATM across the way gives a sudden warning honk, like the kind when you are drunk and get your pin wrong the first time round, and they both jump a little as they break. 

Sherlock shoots a menacing look at it, almost certainly trying to judge out the best way to blow it up if his expression is anything to go by, and John knows their point has been made. It’s time to go home where he can kiss Sherlock properly and without an audience. 

_ Home _ , the feeling bursting like fireworks in his chest.

John slides his fingers along Sherlock’s, worried he might actually float off otherwise, and tugs just a little. Sherlock’s death stare at the ATM is broken and he looks quickly from their joined hands to John’s face, his annoyance smoothing back into something like wonder. 

“Come on you,” John says, “take me home.”


End file.
